by Amy Maroney
“Ah. Sit, please.”
Cornelia’s husband left the room as Mira sank into the chair next to the bed.
“Thank you for receiving me,” Mira said. “You are the first woman painter I have had the honor to meet.”
“There are a few of us about.” Cornelia’s lips twitched in a faint approximation of a smile. “Mostly lurking in the shadows, I’m afraid.”
Mira realized the artist’s voice had the same inflections as Sebastian’s, which made sense because they were both Flemish.
“The shadows?”
“We learn at the knee of an artist father, or by the grace of a brother or husband. We train in their shadows.”
“Ah. I learned from Sebastian de Scolna.”
“That is what I was told. A fine master. A good man, too.”
Mira nodded. “I miss him.”
“You nursed him back to health, I heard.”
“I was trained as a nurse in a convent along the pilgrim’s way, and he came to us nearly dead. He was attacked by a bear—that is what we believed, anyway. I did what I could, but God saved him in the end.”
Cornelia shifted her position and a low moan escaped her.
“Do you have anything for the pain?” Mira asked.
“Yes, the odd tincture. Mysterious syrups and pastes. Nothing helps much.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
Cornelia’s eyes were sunken into her skull, the skin around them dark and puffy. Her forehead was creased with lines and her lips were nearly as pale as her skin. A faint aroma of disease emanated from her. Mira recognized the scent from her days in the abbey’s infirmary.
“The pain began in my stomach,” Cornelia said weakly. “And there it remains. But it journeys up and down each of my limbs and settles in my head most nights.”
“How long have you felt it?”
“It began soon after we moved here from Flanders.”
Without thinking, Mira reached forward and laid a hand on Cornelia’s brow. The skin was cool to touch.
“No fever, anyway. That is good.”
“Once a nurse, always a nurse, is that it?”
“I suppose.” Mira was embarrassed to have been so forward.
“Before I lose strength to speak, tell me what you wished to ask.”
“The blue of Lady de Berral’s dress. I cannot replicate it with the pigments in your palette. What am I missing?”
“Ah yes. Ground lapis. I have more in that drawer.” Cornelia pointed at a small walnut desk that had two deep drawers on either end.
Mira stood. “May I?”
“Please.”
Mira opened the drawer and found a black velvet bag cinched with a silken cord. She loosened the cord and drew out a Venetian glass jar filled with brilliant blue powder.
Cornelia nodded. “There should be more than enough for the dress.”
“I am grateful.” Mira put the jar back in the bag. “You are a fine artist. I hope I can do justice to your work.”
“If you were trained by Sebastian de Scolna, I imagine you are a finer artist than I.”
“Do you sign your work? I could do it for you, if you show me your mark.”
“I signed the back of the panels at my lord’s command. That is always the way. I am no celebrated painter, and no man. You should sign them on the back as well, next to my name.”
“Me? No, I am only finishing what you began.”
Cornelia smiled. “What is a half-finished painting worth? Nothing. You must sign it. I insist. Two women conscripted to paint the same portrait. A rarer occurrence is hard to imagine. Or try the trick I do sometimes. Paint yourself into the portrait.”
“How do you manage that?”
“In a reflection. A vase, a silver plate, a window. It is not so difficult. The key is to make it well hidden, impossible to see unless you know exactly where to look.”
Mira smiled. “I have done the same in prayer books I illuminated.”
“Ah?”
She nodded. “I conceal my name in a thicket of pen strokes, or I use my face in an illustration. Only I know that my mark and my image is there. But there is always the chance that one day, someone else will find them.”
“Then you know exactly how I feel.”
“Does anyone ever discover what you have done?”
“Of course. And my patrons are always amused by it. They find it clever, charming. An artist should leave her mark upon her work, whether she signs it or not.”
Mira smiled. Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she eyed the bottles lined up on a low table by the bed.
“Do you have bark of the willow there? Lavender oil? Poppy milk?”
“Yes, all of those things and more. Truly, the lord is a generous patron. He has spared no expense to care for me. He installed us in this home away from the household so I can rest in tranquillity. I only wish I had been able to complete my work.”
“Perhaps you will recover your strength,” Mira said encouragingly.
Cornelia raised her eyes to Mira’s. “Only God knows. But I am weary of this pain. Each day brings new torment, and the nights are interminable. If I could hasten my own death, I would.”
Mira held her gaze, remembering the day so long ago when Elena showed her how to harvest death caps in the forest. Sometimes it was merciful to take a life, Elena had said. Mira could still remember the rage that consumed her at Elena’s words.
For the first time, she understood the compassion behind them.
14
Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Pelegrín
Pelegrín savored his first experience at Perpignan’s market. He had walked with his men past the livestock pens, the leather goods, the iron works, the bronzer, the cabinetmaker, the flax and rope purveyor, the merchants of oil, salt, wine, salted fish, silk, lace.
In a bookmaker’s stall, he watched, amused, as the man cajoled potential customers, hawking his prayer books, holding them open and displaying the jewel-toned colors of the illustrations within.
The man approached Pelegrín. “Can I interest you in your own prayer book, my lord? Modified for your pleasure, with illustrations painted to your specifications?” He flipped through the pages of a book, holding it up for Pelegrín to see. His words were inflected with some guttural accent. He must be a northerner, Pelegrín guessed. Not from Flanders, but from someplace else like it, where people spoke as if they were scraping the words up from their lungs and coughing them out.
“Fine work,” Pelegrín complimented him.
“Your likeness could go inside, painted specially by an artist trained in the Flemish style. See?” The bookmaker pointed at a small rectangle of black ink, within which was a woman depicted from the shoulders up, a figure with golden skin, wide, slanted gray-green eyes and hair the color of aged copper.
Pelegrín reached out and took the book, holding the page up to get a closer view of the image. It was so like his mother’s face.
“Who is she?”
“The artist I speak of. She painted her own image there.”
The woman he had seen in the streets. He realized a few days later why she had struck him so—because she had his mother’s face. The eyes, the curve of the cheeks and the jaw—and he had seen a glimmer of coppery hair under her cap.
“What is her name?”
“Madame de Luz.”
“Where can I find her?”
The man’s demeanor changed. A guarded look came into his eyes. “I know not. She lately left the city.”
“When will she return?”
“It is anyone’s guess, my lord. Why might you be seeking her?”
“It is a family matter. Do you know where she went?”
There was no response. T
he bookmaker smoothed the cover of the prayer book and flicked an invisible speck of dust off the spine.
Pelegrín retrieved a sack of coins from his vest and gave it a little shake. “Are you sure there is nothing you can tell me of her?”
The bookmaker stared at the sack, his mouth quivering a bit. “They went to the countryside. To the home of some gentlewoman, that’s all I know. There was a painting job that needed doing.”
“They?”
“She and her husband and their little girl.”
“Have you seen them? Her husband and daughter?”
“Never. But she said something once about the mountain folk, speaking of her husband’s family. She talks high-born, herself.”
Pelegrín thrust out some coins. “I will take that book, if it’s for sale.”
The man pocketed the coins. “Done.”
Pelegrín spent the night awake. A thick beeswax candle burned on the table by his bed. The prayer book lay next to it. He opened it to the image of the woman and stared at it in the flickering light. Restless, he got up and crossed to the window, the book in his hand. His chambers overlooked the interior courtyard. Its stone floor was laid in an ornamental pattern that alternated black and white stones. In the moonlight the white stones glowed as if illuminated from within.
As soon as his ship was repaired and reloaded with the goods he had purchased here, he and his men would sail to Tortosa. Then they would ride through the arid plains north of the Ebro River all the way to Oto.
A constant thrum of worries about Alejandro plagued his mind. He had sent a squire and several knights to look after him, but with their parents both dead, he felt the burden of responsibility for his young brother all too keenly.
He opened the book again, tracing the outline of the woman’s face with his finger. She did look like his mother. But that was not enough reason to change his plans, go searching through the countryside on a hunch. There was no more to this than hope, he realized. He would probably see his mother’s face everywhere he went from now on. He might as well resign himself to it.
Pelegrín returned the book to the table, blew out the candle, and got into bed. He was ready to leave this place, bored of the interminable evenings with the merchant and the oddly contrived interactions with the man’s daughter. She could not have been more than fourteen, he thought. Her face had a perpetually startled look. When he spoke, she flinched. He knew his stature, his deep voice, and the severe angles of his face made him intimidating, a quality he had inherited from his father. But he sometimes grew tired of the effect it had on others.
Her father was typical of the merchants who saw titles for their daughters as the crowning glory in their economic achievements. He wanted nothing more than the word ‘baroness’ in front of her name. And he was willing to pay handsomely for the privilege.
Pelegrín folded his hands under his head. He would string the merchant along, leave him with a reason to hope. But he would not commit to a bride until the rest of his family was accounted for.
15
April, 2016
Toulouse, France
Zari
Zari scraped her chair away from the desk and covered her eyes with her hands. The conference was just weeks away. And what did she have? A prayer book from Perpignan, a page in a Toulouse notary’s record book, a design set in stone on a courtyard floor in Nay, and the Oto medallion she had found in the archives at Zaragoza.
Four precious bits of evidence. But none of them tied Mira directly to a painting. So what were they really worth?
She groaned aloud.
The portrait of the woman in blue was constantly in her head. Zari had e-mailed the high-resolution image of it to John Drake as promised, but she had heard nothing back from him. Whether he was simply busy or was embarrassed about their awkward encounter, she had no idea. For now, at any rate, it seemed she could no longer rely on his help.
The past few days she had turned her focus back to Toulouse, to the second registry book of Jean Aubrey, the notary who had witnessed the contract Mira and Arnaud had signed with Lord de Vernier.
She scoured the internet for details about the chief archivist, who had repeatedly cancelled their appointments. Apparently he was a budding photographer who took evening courses at an art institute in Toulouse. She studied the course catalogue of the institute and made a few calls. It seemed an exhibition of student work would be on display next week, and the chief archivist was among those whose photography would be displayed.
Zari chewed her lip. She had never stalked anyone before. But she had never felt this desperate before, either.
On the appointed day, Zari boarded a bus and headed to Toulouse with a portfolio of Mira-related documents.
Outside the doorway of the art school, she smoothed her hair, checked the buttons of her crisp white blouse and eyed her clothing to make sure no smears of chocolate or crumbs from the pain au chocolat she had consumed earlier were visible on her olive-green jacket or black jeans. She had purposely jettisoned her usual vibrant colors in favor of a conservative ensemble. She could look vaguely European with a little bit of effort.
Just before entering the gallery where the student art show was hung, Zari put a hand to the hollow at the base of her throat and touched the tiny scallop shell that hung from a silver chain around her neck.
Here goes, she thought.
Silently chanting self-affirming mantras, she pushed the door open, portfolio in hand. The walls inside the gallery were hung with photographs of people, animals, urban landscapes, and the broad plains that dominated this part of France. A bar was set up in a corner. Clusters of people were scattered around the room, conversing in low tones.
Zari blazed into their midst with all the confidence she could muster. She took a glass of red wine from the bar counter and set off through the crowd.
She knew which photographs were his. They were stark urban landscapes that reminded her of the work of an American photographer, dead now, who rose to prominence in the 1970s. Scanning the faces in the room, she finally spotted the chief archivist, whose image she had studied in her online snooping sessions. He was a tall, thin man with skin the color of milk, his graying hair clipped close to his skull. He wore a blue and white checkered button-down shirt, dark pressed jeans, and polished black leather shoes.
Zari moved closer. She had learned that a big smile was often greeted with suspicion in France, so she maintained an expression that she hoped conveyed sober interest. Approaching one of his works, she peered at it critically.
“It has the air of an Arlo Winfield,” she remarked to no one in particular.
The chief archivist turned to her in surprise. “Thank you,” he said. “That is a great compliment. He is one of the artists who inspires my work.”
“I can tell. Those who have gone before us can be quite inspiring.”
He nodded, eyeing her. “What accent is that? Swedish?”
She smiled. “Now it is my turn to thank you. I am American, but I am happy to be taken for a Swedish woman.”
There was an unmistakable gleam of interest in his eyes. “What brings you to the exhibition? I’m sure you did not simply stumble upon it. This gallery is well off the tourist routes.”
“Actually, it was you.”
He looked startled. “Me?”
She nodded. “I have been wanting to meet you for some time.”
A look of guarded pleasure came over his face. “And why would that be?”
“I am, I think, a lot like you. A lover of art and history.”
His eyes widened slightly at that, but her next words chased the light out of them.
“I’m on the trail of a great artist, a woman who once spent time in Toulouse. And I think you can help me find her.”
“Why do you think I can help?”
“Because you are the chief archivi
st of the city’s history.”
Now he looked annoyed. “You’re that American?”
She nodded. “Every appointment I made with you was cancelled. This was the only way I could think of to get your attention.”
“I see,” he said tightly.
A sudden panic clutched her chest. Had she just torpedoed any chance she’d ever had of getting back in the archives again?
“I apologize for the way I approached you,” she said quickly. “I truly don’t want to interfere with your event. I know you are being honored for your work today and it was quite bold of me to appear here.”
Was it her imagination, or did he look a little less irritated?
Zari decided to be brave. “Can I come to your office tomorrow? I will only take a few moments of your time.” She hefted the portfolio in the air. “I think you will appreciate what I have to show you.”
A group of students approached, calling out the archivist’s name.
“Fine,” he said quickly, his eyes lingering on the portfolio a moment. “Meet me there tomorrow at two o’clock.”
Feeling as if someone had just removed the cartilage from her knees, Zari wobbled through the crowd to the door.
16
April, 2016
Toulouse, France
Zari
Zari found a hotel in downtown Toulouse that was clean and sparse. Then she went to a Monoprix store and bought a prepared meal of couscous and chicken, two bottles of mineral water, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, a tiny bottle of laundry detergent, and an Indian-print scarf. Hopefully the archivist wouldn’t notice that she was wearing the same clothes tomorrow. She would bungle the scarf-tying, of course, but she wasn’t trying to pass herself off as French or even European now.
After eating her food at the small desk near the window, she lay on the bed, half-watching an American television drama dubbed into French. Her mobile buzzed with an incoming video call. It was her mother.
“Mom! How are you?”
